


295 Days

by LadyKenz347



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Graphic depictions of war time violence, Minor Character Death, Sexual Content, brief mention of assualt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24789739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347
Summary: Hermione discovers that all monsters were once men... and maybe they still are.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Thorfinn Rowle
Comments: 41
Kudos: 224





	295 Days

I won't leave you when you're sleeping

I will be here when you awake

'Cause I've got ghosts and I've got demons

But they will not chase me away

'Cause I've been waiting all my life

For some reason that I never could describe

You're not quite what I pictured you would be

You're better than my wildest dreams

_ — My Wildest Dreams _ by Ron Pope — 

  
  


Day 1

The light is blinding. 

Well, it  _ feels _ blinding, even the ambient dull light of the afternoon feels too bright as it streaks through dirty windows.

But then, when you’ve seen nothing but the inside of a dungeon for countless days—weeks—all light is too bright. 

The house Hermione Granger finds herself in is really little more than a shack, dusty and dirty, with sparse furnishings littered around the main room. The bones of the house are solid, the walls keeping the cutting wind from ripping through the home. 

She has no idea how she got here; no idea where she even is. She only knows that there was food on the table and some soap in the shower and too-large clothes folded in the dresser.

But when the immediate threat wanes, she allows herself to find a sense of peace. For the first time in longer than she can remember, she’s clean. She slept.  _ She’s fed.  _ Things that she’d taken for granted all her life and are now priceless commodities. 

Her mind wanders to her friends, to where they must be, what they must be doing. It’s an ache that settles deep in her soul, a phantom limb that she can feel the absence of as clearly as she can feel her arm. 

Day 4

It’s been days in the little shack and while food appears, no one else does. It’s odd… She can feel her defenses failing; she can feel the safety of these walls playing tricks on her mind. 

Because in reality, she’s not safe. She hasn’t been safe in so long that she’s not even sure she really remembers what it feels like. But she reads the paper that’s been left for her next to a plate of toast and eggs—though the toast is burnt and the eggs are runny. 

She searches the death announcements, desperate not to see a name she recognizes. 

Today they are safe, and Hermione lets out a long sigh as she closes the paper and crunches through a corner of toast. 

Day 7

The door crashes open and Hermione reaches for her hip on instinct, for a wand that’s no longer there. Her heart picks up an impossible pace as she scurries for the corner of the shack, pressing herself into its darkness in a vain attempt to disappear. 

A shadow crosses over the floor, and her breath hitches painfully in her throat. Slamming a palm over her mouth, she takes steady, purposeful breaths through her nose. Probably whoever has kept her here—kept her alive—doesn’t mean her harm but she’s been wrong too many times before. 

Thick shoulders appear in the main room and Hermione’s eyes widen at the sheer size of him. She knows him. She obliviated him once. 

Thorfinn Rowle. 

A tremble settles deep into her bones, rattling her body as he slowly turns, eyes locking on hers. Something flashes across his features for a splinter of a second before a hard mask takes over. 

“You’re not dead.” It’s not a question, merely an observation he seems to think is important to note. 

For the first time, she notices the brown paper bag in his thick arms as he walks to the table and drops it unceremoniously. He takes things out; eggs, bread, milk, and canned goods, and puts them in the cupboards of the small kitchenette. 

“You can come out,” he says, though he doesn’t look over his shoulder or acknowledge her any other way. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” 

She ought not trust him, that much is painfully obvious. But he makes a good point. Rising to her feet, she ignores the way her knees knock together and keeps close to the wall as she emerges. 

“Why am I here?” 

Rowle slams the fridge shut, his boots clunking against the wood floor as he turns for the door. His hand pauses on the door knob and she can see the muscles of his throat tense in a thick swallow. “They’re tracking magic; I won’t be able to send you food. There’s some in there now if you can manage.” 

“I—I can.” 

His gaze floats to hers and he assesses her before quickly fixing his stare at the back of the door. “Those clothes don’t fit.” 

Shifting on her feet, Hermione’s nose wrinkles. The jeans are too large, the shirt hangs off her. The lack of food these past weeks surely hasn’t helped matters. “That’s alright.” 

“What size do you wear? I’ll bring them with the food next time.” 

Wringing her fingers together, she thinks back to the last time she bought clothes although she’s pretty sure it was another life. “Oh, I don’t know anymore. I was an eight before—” The words stick in her throat and she forces them out. “Before I was captured. I don’t know.” 

He nods. 

“Why am I here?” she repeats just as he pulls the door open a fraction. 

The steeling of his jaw is unmissable. “You’re not dead.” As if that’s somehow enough of an explanation, he leaves. The door slam echoes throughout the room.

  
  


Day 11

There is one bedroom in the house. She’s claimed it for herself, and while the mattress is lumpy and dusty, the covers threadbare and only a single pillow, it’s the best she’s slept all year. 

Stretching the sleep from her spine, she dips her toes onto the cold wood floor, a shiver inching up her legs. She slips into the main room and begins on breakfast, only realizing that she’s not alone when a loud snore rips through the usual silence. 

With a wild cry, she jumps back, knocking her back into the fridge as Rowle shoots up from the couch, wand in hand and panic etched in his eyes. 

They take a collective breath, and she scowls, though she doesn’t mean to. “You nearly scared me to death.” 

Dropping his wand to his side, his lip curls in disdain. “I’m sure slipping into your bedroom to let you know I’m here at two o’clock in the morning would have been better.” 

It’s only when his eyes drip to her bare legs that she realizes her fatal mistake and grips the hem of her shirt in a lame attempt at lengthening it. He quickly averts his gaze and she swears a blush stains his high cheekbones. 

She shimmies back towards the bedroom, terrified of letting the shirt ride up. Rowle clears his throat and she pauses. In his outstretched arm is a bag but he’s still not looking at her. 

“What’s that?”

“The head of Harry Potter.” 

Her jaw falls open but before she has a chance to be furious, she sees the corner of his lips twitch. “Clothes.” 

“Why am I here?” It’s the third time she’s asked the question. He tosses the bag at her feet and collapses back on the couch, stretching his long arms behind his head. 

It’s the third time he hasn’t answered. 

xXx

The clothes fit much better. Rowle brought some joggers and a few more t-shirts, two pairs of shorts and—much to her horror—knickers. Blissfully, a few hair elastics litter the bottom. 

When she emerges again, in clothes that fit and her hair piled up on her head, she doesn’t immediately see him. Well, not all of him. He’s rather broad and the house is rather small, so he takes up a lot of space. She takes a wide berth around the kitchen, pulling on her fingers from the sheer anxiety of being next to a Death Eater that appears not to want her dead. 

He’s cooking. Which is the strangest thing she can remember ever seeing. He’s a few years older than she is and while he was much the same at Hogwarts, he’s bigger now. 

His sandy blond hair is long, secured in a low bun at the nape of his neck, and idly, Hermione wonders how he finds clothes that fit. His arms are bigger than her skull but somehow he tapers into a trim waist.

Objectively, he’s handsome. That’s not something many people would be able to really debate; his cheekbones and jaw are like sharply cut glass, thick stubble stretching down his neck, and just above the collar of his shirt she can see a thatch of chest hair. It’s not until her eyes catch on the inky black mark on his left forearm that she remembers her reality. 

Gulping, she retreats a single step. 

“You can stop acting like that,” he says but doesn’t look at her. “I’m not going to suddenly decide to wear your teeth like a necklace.” 

“Oh.” She blinks twice. “I didn’t think you—” 

“Yes, you did.” The spatula falls against the pan and he turns to her, resting his hands on his hips. “You should be safe here; there are wards in place.” 

“Where are we?” she tries, knowing it’s probably too far to press. 

With a shrug, he turns back to the eggs he’s effectively burning. “Doesn’t matter. You won’t be leaving.” 

Unwarranted indignation rises in her belly and she rolls her eyes. “I’m your prisoner, then?”

“I don’t give a shit what you want to call it.” He flicks the stove off and picks up the pan up only to drop it onto a cold burner with too much force. “You’re dead.  _ England _ thinks you're dead.”

The room faltered… or maybe she did. “Wh-what did you just say?”

Rowle turns back to the stove, dragging his tongue along his teeth. “How else do you think I got you from Malfoy Manor?” Without preamble, he tenses and hisses, the thick muscle of his forearm tightening as he glares at the tattoo on his arm. “I have to go.” 

“Go?”

“Yes. Go. _ Leave.” _ His feet are heavy across the floorboards and he shrugs on a worn brown leather jacket. 

There is a twisting in her belly that makes her sick and without thought she says, “When will you be back?”

He pauses, brows pinching. “I don’t know.” Then, he’s gone and outside there is a gentle purr of a machine coming to life. 

Rushing to the dirty window, she sees him sitting astride a motorbike, its headlights flickering on before he speeds down a long dusty road. 

Day 18

She has come to think that Thorfinn doesn’t much like her—maybe he doesn’t like people at all. Which makes the fact that he saved her life even more strange. Across from her at the table, he stares out the window and chews his cereal…  _ loudly. _

He doesn’t speak. Offers no other information about the war or her location or anything at all. 

“Is this your house?”

He grunts and it sounds like an affirmation. 

“Where do you stay when you’re not here?” 

Swallowing he rises to his feet, and takes his bowl to the sink, letting it clatter against the dingy porcelain. 

_ “Do you have family in England?” _

_ “Do your friends call you Thor?” _

_ “Did you know that there is a God of Thunder named Thor and he looks rather like you?” _

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

He lays back across the sofa, kicking his muddy boots onto the armrest, causing her nose to wrinkle. The man is beyond frustrating, and what’s more is that he’s around more often. At first she saw him every few days but now it’s closer to every other. 

Hermione can’t decide if it’s worse to be alone or stuck with someone who won’t bloody speak to you. They’re both rotten choices. 

“I remember you from Tottenham Court Road.” The words have a visible effect on him, the thick muscle of his arms tensing even as they are folded neatly behind his head. “I obliviated you.” 

He snorts. “You didn’t do a very good job.” 

It was true; she hadn’t. Guilt over what she’d done to her parents had still weighed her down and as she cast, she hadn’t been able to focus properly. Her magic had ticked away certain things; she’d focused most on Harry’s face and ensuring that they didn’t remember seeing him, but she’d faltered at the end. She’d failed. 

She’d sorted through his memories that night; she’d seen his family, his girlfriend, his friends, and memories of Quidditch. He’d been a person before he’d been a Death Eater and— 

Well, and that had been that. They’d left him and Dolohov petrified; she never spoke about what she’d done—or rather not done. 

Her cheeks flush with heat and she takes an indignant step forward. “Why am I here?” 

Some unreadable emotion flickers over his face and his eyes flutter closed. “A life for a life. You could have killed me that night and you didn’t—it’s old magic that can’t be broken.” 

It feels as though her ribs are closing around her lungs, each breath almost painful as she forces them through her barely parted lips. “You could have dropped me in the country and been done with me.” 

He sucks his tongue between his teeth, eyes still closed. “Could have.” 

Silence stretches on for a few long minutes and when she realizes that’s all she is going to get from the interaction, she turns on her heel. 

“I don’t like Thor,” he says when she reaches the mouth of the small corridor. “Thorfinn or Finn.” 

Glancing over her shoulder, she finds him unmoved, but his eyes are open and intent on her. Nodding, she disappears back into the only bedroom and closes the door. 

Day 25

It’s the middle of the night when she hears him in the front room. Temptation to see him pulls in her gut but she stays curled under her covers until dawn breaks. Until it’s appropriate. 

There is no reason for her to fuss with her hair or pinch her cheeks… but she does. With a flutter in her chest and a small smile on her lips she comes out, expecting to find him on the sofa. 

The room is empty; he's already gone. 

On the kitchen table is a neat stack of books, four in total. Her eyes widen as she rushes to them, placing a reverent hand on the top, and silently thanks him, even though he’s not there. 

Day 27

She’s been testing her limits, how far she can go in the surrounding area. Summer is approaching fast and hot, warming the earth, and she wonders how far she could survive on her own without a wand. If she can get to Harry, then all will be well. 

But she’s no bloody idea where she is. 

There are woods surrounding the small shack, and a long path that leads to somewhere she can’t see. There are no wards that keep her in, although he’s mentioned there are ones to keep others out. 

How long could she make it out there? What would happen to him if she were found out to still be alive? 

The familiar thunder of his bike creeps through the air and she quickly makes her way back to the porch and takes a seat on the steps. Adrenaline chases through her veins and with each breath, she begs her heart to slow. 

A plan has already started formulating but it requires a wand. A wand she decidedly does not have. 

As Thorfinn comes into view, his body bent over a dusty old motorbike, she can feel her heart quicken even further because although she knows what she has to do, she’s almost certain she can’t do it. 

Day 30

His snores rumble through the night, and with her shoes already on and a hammering in her heart, she counts each and every one. 

When she’s counted twenty-five of them, she sneaks down the hall to where he’s laid out on the old couch. 

She needs to be quick. Strength doesn’t matter, not when you’re the one with the wand, but  _ getting _ the wand is another thing altogether. 

Stopping next to him, she reaches her fingers for where his wand is jutting out of his jeans pocket. Her eyes flutter closed and she steadies her breath, but before her fingers can brush along the wood, his features pull tight and a whimper replaces his snore. 

She stops long enough to study the lines of his face, the worry that’s revealed in the fog of sleep. 

The whimper turns to a low whine and his body twitches. Without thinking, she sinks to her knees and places her palms on his chest. “Thorfinn? Finn? Wake up… you’re safe.” 

With a shake, he jerks awake, eyes wild as his hand closes around her throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds her there as his nightmare recedes from his consciousness and he blinks awake. Shaking his head a few times he mumbles his apologies and his hand falls away. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers back, rising to her feet. “Do you want me to stay?”

Snorting, he pushes his wand deeper in his pocket and rolls on his side away from her. “Of course not.” 

Day 32

_ Pop! _

Sucking in a hard breath, Hermione slams her book shut and slinks back into the corner of the bed. No magic is allowed and that was most definitely magic. 

The sound of boots scuffing against the floor and muttered expletives give her a small sense of relief, but still, she doesn’t dare move. Not yet. 

Instead, she counts her breaths. In and out. In and out. 

  
_ “Hermione!” _

A sob of relief sounds from her lips and she’s off the bed and down the hall a moment later, uncaring that she’s only in a long t-shirt. 

It takes not even a moment to spot Thorfinn, on his knees and covered in blood, reeking of dark magic. 

“Oh my god…” She pushes his long hair from his face, some it crusted to his cheeks with blood, and tears begin to fall from her lashes. “What on earth happened?” 

He coughs and blood sputters from his lips, spraying over her shirt and legs, and it takes all her strength to help him to his feet. Each step is labored as she nearly buckles from the weight of supporting him. 

“Almost there,” she manages as they cross the threshold to the room and he collapses on the covers a moment later. His eyes are rolling back in his skull and the fear that’s taking hold of her chest is overwhelming. “Where are you hurt?”

Blood covers her palms.  _ Too much blood _ . Hermione rushes from the room, grabbing a pair of shears from the kitchen and the towels from the rack in the bathroom. When she’s back at his side, she takes the scissors to his shirt and cuts it right up the middle, her stomach roiling as a large gash in his abdomen is revealed. 

She presses a towel into the wound, a desperate attempt to stave off the bleeding, but it won’t do for long. His normally tan skin is grey and she slides her fingers across his torso as she looks for other injuries.

“Thorfinn, can you hear me? I need you to respond if you can hear me.” A low grunt as he coughs up more blood fills her with the smallest flare of hope and she brings both hands to his face to turn his gaze to hers. “Do you have potions? Anything that might help? Dittany or Blood Replenishing?” 

His wide hand comes up to her forearm and he grips it as he fights for consciousness. 

“Please,” she begs, her voice tapering off in a whimper as he forces his eyes open. 

“Fl-floorboard by the fireplace.” 

Hermione has never run faster in her life, her bare feet skidding against the floor as she falls to her knees and begins punching the floor with the side of her fist. The third one gives and the other side lifts; inside is a small black bag and she grabs it before rushing back to his side, dumping the contents onto the floor. 

Loose galleons and Muggle money scatter, a wand, a few vials, and clothes for a woman fall loose. Her eyes dart to where Thorfinn lays dying. She picks up the wand, relishing in the feeling of magic once again thrumming in her veins, and then reaches for the vials. 

She cries harder when she finds the Dittany and quickly unstoppers it, dropping the potion into the wound and watching as the flesh attempts to mend itself and stitch back together before dissolving back into its original shape. 

“Curse,” he chokes out and she places a hand on his heart, watching as her hand rises and falls with the time of his breath. Still steady. 

Her mind races; magic is a muscle she hasn’t needed to use in awhile but it holds memory, and her fingers grip the foreign wand as though she’s held it every day of her life. “I’ll have to stupefy you,” she mumbles, watching as the blood stains the mattress. 

The muscles of his throat constrict but he remains speechless. 

_ “Stupefy.” _

Day 34

“You’re still here.” 

The familiar voice tugs her from sleep and she squirms in the transfigured armchair where she’s curled up the last two nights. Squinting through her lashes, she finds Thorfinn sitting up. He’s still shirtless and the bandages on his side appear not to have bled through yet. 

“You’re not dead,” she replies with a sleepy smile. It was the first thing he ever said to her and the irony is not lost on her as she stretches her arms over her head and lets out a loud yawn then moves to his side. 

“Wasn’t so sure there for a while,” he says from the corner of his mouth, his voice leaden with uncertainty. “Thought you might take the bag and run.” 

Her brows tug together as she pulls back the dressing on his wound and checks the raw edges. “Well, I didn’t.” 

Her fingertips stretch a bit of skin by his ribs and his abdomen flexes, rippling with thick muscle and she trains her eyes where they need to be. “The curse had seeped into the muscle and extracting it was complicated. You’d have been in a lot of pain if I kept you conscious. The gash was a separate wound but I had to treat the curse before it’d stitch together.” She reaches for the dittany on the end table and treats the wound. “You’ve been asleep for two days but I think you’re going to be alright. Might need to skip out on the Death Eater revels for a week or so, but you’ll live.” 

“How’d you know what to do?” 

Her lips twitch in a smile as she redresses his side and then shifts back. “Your friend Dolohov. He gave me the courtesy of a similar curse in the Department of Mysteries.” 

Thorfinn visibly stills, his jaw steeling as he looks away from her. But she keeps her stare intent on him. She’d come to memorise his face these last few days while he slept, the slope of his nose and cut of his cheekbones. She’d washed the blood from his torso and face, spending far too much attention on the tight pull of his skin over hard muscle. 

“He almost killed me. I’m assuming whoever cursed you was working for the Order of the Phoenix?” Arching a brow, she waits. 

“An old friend, actually,” he says before dragging his tongue along his teeth. “Charlie Weasley. Used to play Quidditch against the bloke but… those times are long gone now.” 

Her gaze doesn't waver. “Well, that makes sense then. Charlie would have trouble casting such dark magic. You’re lucky.” 

A watery snort erupts from inside him and he shifts up higher. “I’m hungry, is what I am. And I need to tell someone I’m not dead—where’s my wand?”

_ Someone. _ “Like a girlfriend?” She winces away from her own question, destesting the slow smile stretching over his lips. 

“Like Lucius Malfoy so he doesn’t come looking for me and find you instead.” 

Shaking her head clear from the horror of asking such a painfully inappropriate question, she flounders for something to say. “Right, of course. Your wand is in the drawer. I’ll just leave you to it, then.” 

As soon as the door is closed behind her, she slaps her palm against her forehead and groans. 

xXx

A can of soup is just beginning to bubble when she hears the floorboards creaking with the arrival of her housemate. She tries in vain not to look over but he’s still shirtless and it’s rather difficult to ignore such a sight. 

He grimaces as he pushes the window open and whistles loudly through his teeth. A falcon appears on the sill a few moments later and Finn hands him a missive and then closes the window. 

“That’s a neat trick,” she says lamely, stirring the soup. 

“He’s my familiar; he always stays close.” With a grunt, he reaches down to grab a jumper off the back of the sofa. “How much magic did you do while I was out?”

Hermione pulls the saucepan off the burner and turns to him, guilt twisting in her belly though she’s done nothing but save his life. “Just the extraction and a few diagnostics.” 

He nods and holds his hand out for the wand. “Rules are the same, no magic. I shouldn’t have Apparated here but it was the first place that came to mind after I was hit.” 

Staring at his palm, she feels an ache settle inside her. She doesn’t want to let go of the magic she only just recently recovered. Begrudgingly, she reaches into her back pocket and hands it over. 

“The Ministry is tracking for magic; they send Snatchers to investigate any concentrated use. I’ll put the bag for you back under the floorboard and if anyone comes within the wards, you’ll be able to feel it. Get it and Apparate as far away from London as you can, then do it again.” 

He seems…  _ concerned _ . It’s unsettling. “Why do you care?” 

At the simple question, his features flatten in annoyance and he hobbles back towards the sofa. “I was the one who told them you’d died down there. I gave you Draught of Living Death and was told to dispose of your body. I’ll be in a fair bit of trouble if you end up alive.” 

“Because of the life debt?” she presses, needing to know that was the only reason, because the longer she’s been here the more she’s come to doubt it.

He falls onto the cushions and groans. Rubbing a hand down his bearded cheek, he thinks on it a moment and then nods. “Yeah, because of the life debt.” 

Good. That’s how it ought to be. She turns back to the stove and pours two bowls of soup, offering one to him as she settles on the far side of the couch. 

_ Good. _

Day 38

Thorfinn has been given four days off to recover, so he’s always there. He tries to sleep on the sofa but she won’t hear of it. 

So Hermione resigned herself to its lumpy cushions for the time being. She’s currently curled in the corner, trying to ignore the fact that he is naked in the shower and failing miserably. She’s read the same bloody page three times but visions of soap slipping over his hard stomach keep flooding her mind and she has to shake the thoughts away before beginning again. 

The door at the end of the hall opens, a streak of light inching across the corridor floor and she tries, really she does, not to crane her neck and catch sight of him disappearing into the bedroom, his towel slung painfully low on his hips, skin glistening. 

_ Merlin. _

She starts the page for the fourth time. 

xXx

The fire is burning in the hearth, the quiet crackle soothing her as she reads. 

Hermione doesn’t even notice Thorfinn’s sudden appearance until the cushions dip next to her. He sets a bottle of firewhisky on his knee and drapes his strong arm over the back of the couch. 

He remains silent as he stares at the flames licking the chimney, taking a long pull from the mouth of the bottle. The way his throat moves around a swallow is entrancing.

“Do you drink?” 

She considers it a moment. She hasn’t, not really. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t—or wouldn’t. It seems she is quiet for too long because he offers her the bottle, and to her own surprise, she takes it.

It’s a mistake to smell it first. She flinches away and winces but when he only chuckles and holds his hand out to take it back, her ego swells and she takes a pull. 

Merlin, it burns and the putrid face she makes can’t be attractive as she forces it down her throat. At the end she falters, coughing and batting at her chest as the alcohol rushes to her head. 

“Careful, girl,” he says with a laugh, and she wants to reprimand him but when she looks at him he’s smiling. 

“Are you glad to have a break?”

His nose wrinkles as he takes another long drink, far more elegantly than she ever could. “From war? Yes. Yes, I am. I’ll be due back the day after tomorrow.” 

Worrying her lip, she tries to hold the question back that she’s been desperate to ask but the liquor has already loosened her tongue. “Have you heard anything about Harry?”

The question slides through the space between them and she can see the way it settles on his shoulders. “No.” 

“Reckon that’s a good thing.” 

“I guess,” he says with a shrug, offering her the bottle again. 

She takes it more eagerly this time, taking a smaller sip and managing it far better than the first. “What’s it been like out there? I haven’t seen many deaths reported in the paper.” 

“Quiet before the storm, I think. My turn: why didn’t you kill us that night? Obliviate us at the very least?”

Quickly averting her eyes, she focuses her attention on her fingers knotting together. “It’s complicated.” 

“I answered yours.” 

Her nose wrinkles. “I just couldn’t do it; I saw who you were before and I don’t know. I probably should have; maybe you’d be far away from here by now and I’d be with Harry and Ron.” 

“You’d be dead in that dungeon if you had,” he snorts. “Go on, ask another.” 

“Have you killed any of my friends?” The question is barely a whisper. 

He fills his lungs and then releases a long breath. “Might have injured a few but no fatalities by my wand yet.” 

“Would you?”

_ “Ah ah,  _ my turn. Did you shag Viktor Krum?”

Hermione chokes on a laugh and rocks forward, her eyes wide in amusement. “What?!”

“It was a well-spread rumor that you fucked Krum the night of the Yule Ball.” 

A blush sears its way into her skin and she can’t help the flutter in her belly. Thank Godric for the firewhisky dancing through her veins. “I did not; I got the very distinct feeling he was using me for a cover.” 

“Why would you think that?”

Her lips curl in a smile. “Because I caught him snogging his classmate later that night.” When she looks up he’s gaping. Her tongue darts out to wet her lip and she shrugs. “What’s your plan for me? Keep me here the rest of my life?”

He pulls a placating face. “If You-Know-Who wins? Possibly. But hopefully I’ll be sending you along to your little boyfriend by the end of summer. This will all be ending soon; I’ll be dead or in Azkaban.” 

_ “What?”  _

“It is what it is.” 

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” she says firmly. 

Thorfinn shifts on the couch so he’s facing her, his head canting to the side as shadows from the fire dance over his skin. “Sure.” 

“Why didn’t you drop me in the middle of the country and leave me to rot?”

Something flickers over his features. “I’m not a monster.” 

“Then why did you become a Death Eater?”

“You’ve got two in a row now. What was your favourite course in school?”

She chuckles, the alcohol fully thrumming between her ears now. “Your questions are odd. But I don’t know if I had one, maybe History of Magic.” 

“With  _ Binns? _ Fuck, you are a swot, aren’t you?”

“And proud of it.” She smirks and doesn’t miss the way his gaze lingers on the corner of her mouth.

He takes another drink. “Are you and Potter shagging?”

Hermione bristles, her lips pursing at the horrible visual. “Absolutely not. Why did you become a Death Eater?” 

A long sigh that’s more like a groan pushes from his lungs. “I didn’t have many options after school; I have no family except a piece of shit uncle who was old mates with Lucius. He got me a few odd jobs to make some money; things got out of hand.” 

“So you’re not a racist?” 

Another drink. “I’m a half-blood. Mum was a Muggle who my father assaulted. He didn’t know I existed until I got my letter to Hogwarts and then he killed her.” 

Pressure stung the back of her eyes and she shifted an inch closer to him. “I’m so sorry…” 

“It’s okay; he got his in the end. Tried to swindle the wrong man in a row of gambling. He’s dead now.” He pauses, the lines of his face softening. “If you could do one thing before you die, what would it be?” 

She swallows thickly, whisky clouding her judgement. “I think I’d want to know what it was like to be free. I don’t think I remember the feeling of not being watched or running. Funny enough being here is the closest I can remember because for the first time in years I’m not afraid.” 

A disbelieving smile twists his lips, his brows pitching high. “You’re not afraid of me?”

She rolls her eyes and laughs. “No, am I supposed to be? You’re like a teddy bear. What would you want to do?”

“I’d want to kiss you.” He says it without skipping a beat.

The universe quiets, even the stardust stilling for exactly one breath as his confession churns through the air. “M-me?”

“You.” 

Huffing, she reaches her hand for the bottle and he offers it to her with a crooked smile. “It’d be a waste. I’m not very good at it. Never had much practice.” 

“You asked; I answered.” He shrugs again and kicks his boots up on the low table in front of them. “You can have the bed tonight. I’m fine here.” 

She blinks. “Okay.” 

Setting the bottle next to his feet, she rises to stand, making her way down the corridor and burying herself in sheets that smell like him. 

xXx

She lays there a short while, staring out the window at the endless sky that somewhere held her friends and family. The truth of it was that she could be free if she wanted. He wasn’t holding her here, she had access to a wand and money. 

But out there didn’t make her free, not really. She’d always be looking over her shoulder, ready to run. 

What he’d given her was peace and maybe that was better than freedom. Before she can talk herself out of it she peels the covers back and tip-toes through the darkness. 

Thorfinn is still sitting where she left him, eyes trained on the fire and hands tucked behind his neck. Every fibre of her being vibrates with anxiety and adrenaline but she pushes forward until she’s standing in front of him. 

His grey eyes land on her face, then slide down her body, over her bare legs and up again but he doesn’t speak.

Maybe silence is for the best, as she settles her knee on the far side of his hips, the other in the crook of the sofa. He doesn’t move but she can see the flexing of his muscles under his thin jumper. 

She’s never sat on a man’s lap before and it’s the most nerve-wracking thing she’s ever done. Finally, his hands fall to the tops of her thighs, his thick fingers gripping her flesh before travelling to her hips and pulling her until she’s over the ridge of his cock. 

She gasps at the feel of him, her eyes widening. Never in her life has she been touched like this and she’s desperate for  _ more _ . His fingers drift under the hem of her shirt, and she can’t move. Her eyes flutter closed as he traces the ladder of her ribs and settles on the sides of her breasts. He brushes his thumbs along her nipples and they harden under his gentle touch, the sensation melting something inside her that pools in her knickers. 

“Kiss me,” he whispers, filling his palms with her backside. 

Bracing her palms on his thick chest, she leans forward, hovering her mouth over his. She looks up and locks her gaze with his, her chest heaving in anticipation. 

Still, he doesn’t move. He waits, fingers tightening on her bum. After a long swallow to bolster her nerves, she closes the distance, her lips pressing gently against his. 

What she started, he immediately deepens, his lips turning firm and insistent. He kisses effortlessly, as though he has kissed a woman every day of his existence, and she feels so woefully under-experienced. One of his hands travels to her throat, his thumb brushing her jaw before sliding into her curls. 

He guides her lips open and pushes his tongue into her mouth, swallowing her moan as she curls around him. The taste of whisky and sin on his tongue coax something carnal from inside her and her hands lock around his thick neck. She melts into him as his arms band around her. 

He kisses her until she’s breathless, her head falling back as he immediately moves his attention to her throat. While he palms her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, she bucks against his erection. 

“Tell me to stop.” He rucks her cotton t-shirt up and laves a flat tongue over her nipple before closing his lips and sucking gently. 

“Oh my  _ god _ …” 

His hand drifts over her belly and down the front of her knickers and she keens when he slides a single digit down her slit. “Fuck, tell me to stop.” It sounds like a beg but she can’t oblige. She doesn’t want to.

In a swift movement, she rolls her hips and the tip of his finger presses into her clit. “Please, Thorfinn,  _ more. _ ” 

He growls, hands finding her bum again and lifting her without effort. She’s never felt as fragile as she does now, like he could break her if he wanted though she knows he never would. 

She twines her fingers into his hair as he walks, kissing the sides of his face and finally his lips again as he kicks the door to the bedroom open. 

“Make love to me,” she says against his lips. 

“We don’t have to.” He drops her on the bed unceremoniously and crawls over her, caging her under his strong arms and sliding his thigh between her legs. 

Unwittingly, she rocks against the rigid muscle of his thigh. “I—I never have but I want to.” Thorfinn pauses, pushing up on his elbows to look at her as she swallows before confessing, “That’s what I want to do before I die and I want to be with you.” 

The pause while he considers this is near painful. Insecurity feels like acid in her belly but a moment later, he assaults her mouth with fervid kisses and presses his erection into her belly. He shoves the fabric of her shirt up,exposing her breasts again and stares at her with a hungry look in his eyes. 

With only slightly trembling fingers, she pulls the shirt over her head, letting her curls splay against the quilt as a blush covers every inch of her skin. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he whispers, hand sliding up the curve of her waist and groping her breast.

When he falls over her again, his lips brush her collar bone, then her sternum. His lips close over her nipple with a firm suck and then he travels to the puckered scar stretching over her ribs. He kisses it reverently, making her  _ squirm _ as one hand slides into her knickers and a finger circles her clit.

One finger slides into her sex with ease and her knees rise, bracketing his hips as he pumps in and out of her slowly. Another joins, and the pleasure is almost too much; she wants to move, wants to ride or buck or scratch. 

Instead, she quickly flicks open the clasp of his jeans and before he can protest, plunges her hand in his trunks, gasping at the thickness of his member as she wraps her slender fingers around him. 

He smirks as he pushes his fingers deeper, touching a part of her she wasn’t sure existed until this moment, and then with a single pass of his thumb, she’s undone, tumbling over an unseeable edge as euphoria runs rampant through her system and her vision goes dark. 

Vaguely, she’s aware of him withdrawing from her folds and he pushes back to stand. When her faculties return, she can see him pulling his jumper off, wincing at the strain on his injury. 

“Are you okay?” she pants, staring at his bandages. 

“Never better.” Kicking out of his boots, he pushes his jeans and trunks to the ground, revealing his erection to her eyes for the first time and her mouth runs dry as he pumps himself slowly. “Do you still want me?” There is a vulnerability in his voice that lances through her and her eyes flicker to his. 

“Yes.” 

Disbelief paints his features and he shakes his head as he reaches for her knickers and rolls them down her thighs. He’s sinfully slow, and each movement makes her heart gallop faster. 

She’s sure he’s going to settle between her thighs and she clenches her eyes shut. But his tongue drags up her slit and she keens, hips rolling at the unexpected sensation as his fingers enter her again, this time stretching her while his tongue flicks and circles her clit until she’s impossibly at the precipice again. 

“Come for me again, Hermione. I want you on my tongue.” 

Her lips part in a silent cry as her thighs close around his face, burying her hand in his blond hair. She can feel how wet she is and a shameful blush burns her chest and cheeks as he licks her again and again. 

Thorfinn crawls over her and she’s never been more aware of their size difference as she is in this moment. He’s massive everywhere and her hands come up to his broad shoulders, nails sinking into his skin as his cock nudges her entrance. 

“I”ll go slow; tell me if it’s too much.” 

She nods frantically and he sinks inside her just barely; she already thinks it’s too much. There is a pinch that makes her grimace and she wonders if it’s supposed to be like this until he slants his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue against hers as he presses deeper. 

She moans as he fills her, one of his hands wrapping around the back of her knee and widening her hips as he goes just a little further. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” he mumbles against her lips. The hand behind her knee travels to her bum as he rocks into her again. 

“Are you all the way in?” Her voice is trembling and when he shakes his head no, her eyes widen. “Will it even fit?”

An untimely laugh bubbles forward and he drops his head to his shoulder. “It will when you’re ready; it’s okay if you’re not.” She squirms, adjusting to the feeling. He kisses her jaw and her shoulder. “Try to relax.” 

She does and there is some immediate relief. “I’m ready, you can keep going.” 

With another soft press of his hips, he lets out a groan and she cries out. “That’s all of me, love.” 

Her arms lock around his neck and she counts her breaths. “I’m okay,” she realises aloud. “You can do it again, I think.” 

Rising up on his elbows, he watches her as he drags slowly from her sex, an entirely different sensation this time and when he pushes in a fluid motion, she cries out in pleasure, her back arching off the mattress. 

“Better?” 

She keens in response, and he repeats it again and again, marking her skin with his mouth until he’s soon rocking into her with a steady rhythm. Soft grunts sound in her ear and she can feel his body tighten and tense as he thrusts into her a final time. 

He rests some of his weight against her and the feeling alone is heaven. But it’s when he begins kissing her, slowly and lovingly, like she’s important to him somehow, that she finds true bliss. 

Moments later, she’s wrapped in his embrace, their limbs tangled as they chase after sleep. 

Day 40

He was summoned the morning after their night together and hasn’t returned in five days. 

Five days. 

The anxiety is overwhelming and the wand hidden in the floorboards but she remembers what he said. Magic brings snatchers. 

So she paces and fails at sleeping. She tries to read but can’t. She picks at food when her stomach growls and stops as soon as it ends. 

If he’s dead she won’t know… maybe ever. She’ll be left here to rot. 

She’ll run out of food eventually; the cupboards are pretty barren as it is. 

He’d asked her what she wanted before she died and maybe he knew it was coming for them both. Maybe she was a fool for not wishing for her freedom and wishing just to be in his arms again. 

But she still wouldn’t change it. 

Day 42

_ Crack! _

Hermione is out of bed and bounding for the front room as soon as the sound reverberates to where she sits. 

Thorfinn rushes through the door, sighing in relief at the sight of her before he kicks the floorboard loose and snatches the bag that’s hidden there. 

“It’s time. You’ve got to go.” He shoves the bag into her chest and she’s blinking and shaking her head. 

“What are you talking about? Are you okay? Where have you been?” He looks tired, dark purple circles shadowing his eyes and a hollowness to his cheeks she didn’t think was possible. 

“Do you remember what I told you? You Apparate as far from London as you can, then you do it again and again. But not towards Hogwarts, that’s where it’s happening. Get to the coast, okay? Be safe.” He presses a hard kiss to her forehead and makes for the door. 

She can’t understand, her mind chasing impossible thoughts as she rushes onto the front porch after him. “Thorfinn, stop! I’m not leaving. Wh-what are you talking about?”

Growling, he runs his hands through his hair and reels on her. “I have to go, Hermione. I can’t stay or they’ll come and they can’t know you’re alive. Do you understand? They’ll kill you. I  _ need _ you to go.” His fingers wrap around the back of her neck and he forces her gaze to meet his. 

She’s fucking crying which is mortifying but she can’t stop now. Frantically, she shakes her head back and forth and twists her fingers in his shirt. “Come with me! We’ll go together and—” 

“I can’t,” he bites out, jerking his chin towards the Dark Mark on his arm. “They’ll find me if I don’t come back. I shouldn’t be gone this long. Please go. Be safe and alive and no matter what at least I’ll know I didn’t fuck that up.” 

He kisses her hard and it’s a tragic goodbye the way his lips move against hers, in the way his arms band around her and close her in. When their lips part he pushes his forehead into hers and this close she can see the grief etched into his features. 

“Potter is alive. He’ll end it tonight. I’ll help him how I can; I promise but I need you to go.” He releases her too roughly and stomps away, stopping a few feet away with a steeled jaw. “I’ll miss you.” 

He turns on the spot and a column of smoke disappears into the sky. She’s barefoot on the lawn and utterly alone. 

xXx

She Apparates next to the Shrieking Shack and stands back, wand pointed at an unassuming wall.  _ “Confringo!”  _

A hole is blasted cleanly through the side and she rushes through and into the tunnel hidden in the wall, sprinting as the sounds of battle thunder overhead. As she approaches the exit, she tugs the hood of her cloak up and crawls up through the opening, tumbling onto the lawn as she scampers away from the wayward swings of the willow’s branches. 

When she’s out of reach, she raises her gaze to the chaos, her heart stopping at the clashing of magic and giants and children. She chokes out a sob and allows herself a single moment to lament the destruction of lives and innocence taking place tonight and then she rights her hood and rushes through the fray. 

She fires when she can, casting against some faceless fighter who was about to attack a Ravenclaw in the back; she ignores the sickening crunch that reaches her ears when he careens towards a stone wall. 

Each step carries her onward; she ducks through a hole in the castle wall and fights her way through the throngs of students clamoring to safety while she runs swiftly away from it. 

Hermione isn’t even sure what it is she wants to do; only that she has to be here. She can help, she’s sure of it. 

A curse whizzes past her ear, and without thinking she reels, a spell on her lips before her eyes settle on Luna. She’s thinner, if that’s possible, sporting a black eye and a cut on her lip but she’s not dead in Malfoy Manor. She got out too. 

“H-Hermione?” she chokes on a breath and a moment later they are wrapped in a tight hug. “You’re alive?”

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” Hermione cries as she holds her friend at arm’s length. “Where’s Harry?”

Luna points over her shoulder. “I saw him just back that way, but be careful. I’ve got to get these first years to the secret passage. I’m so happy you’re not dead.” 

She is still perfectly Luna and it brings a smile to Hermione’s lips. They hug again and part without another word spoken. It’s strange, these moments that could be her last never quite feel like it. Maybe she ought to take more time but that's the last thing she has. 

She sprints as fast as she can, stumbling into the Great Hall, and her eyes catch on the madness in the courtyard. Darting through the rubble and magic, she tries to hold back her wandfire, terrified of hitting Thorfinn in the midst of it all. 

In the corner, a familiar scream pierces the air and she stops, searching for a face she might recognize but she finds Fenrir Greyback atop Lavender Brown instead, her face greying by the moment as he rips her to pieces. 

_ “Bombarda!”  _ Her magic slams into the wolf’s side and she feels vindicated slightly as he careens towards his death. Large hands close around her arms and she’s pulled quickly into the shadows.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Thorfinn is feral as he towers over her, his eyes lit with rage. “Are you trying to get us both killed?” 

“You’re not dead,” she chokes out, tears on her cheeks as the sounds of battle come to a head behind them. 

“Not yet and you’re not in fucking China which is where I expected you to be. Go,  _ now _ . I can’t concentrate if you’re here.” 

_ “Protego!” _ She casts over his shoulder and a shield guards his back as a jet of magic crashes into where he stands. 

Growling, he turns, wand pointed as soon as her shield falls away.  _ “Stupefy!  _ You need to leave before—” 

“H-Hermione?” She stills, turning to the sound of a voice she’d know anywhere.  _ Ron.  _ His wand is pointed at Thorfinn’s face though he can’t tear his eyes from her. “We thought you were dead.”

Terror seizes her heart and she lifts her hands in surrender. “Ron, don’t hurt him… it’s complicated.” 

Finally, his trance breaks and his hard stare flickers to Thorfinn, his lips curling in disdain. “What’d you do to her?”

“Listen to me,” she pleads, taking a quick step so she’s in front of Thorfinn. “It’s me and I’m perfectly fine. I need you to trust me, Ron.” 

Her old friend’s jaw snaps shut and he bares his teeth as he takes a hard step forward, wand hand unwavering. “Come with me, Hermione. Harry needs us.” 

She releases a slow breath and grips her wand. “Thorfinn, do you trust me?” 

A snort sounds from over her shoulder. “You? Yes. This fool… ” 

Swallowing the anxiety inching up her throat, she turns and rests her hand on his chest for a moment. “I’ll make sure you get out.  _ Stupefy. _ ” Magic shoots from her wand and fizzles into his chest and he falls in a massive heap at her feet. A sob claws up her throat and she forces another spell through her gritted teeth.  _ “Incarcerous.”  _

She has a plan, a half-formed one, but it’s her only shot. “Where are they keeping captured Death Eaters?” she asks without turning over her shoulder. 

Ron steps forward, digging in his pocket and producing a small handkerchief. Inside is a button and he lets it fall onto Thorfinn’s chest, whisking him away. “Akzaban.” He turns then, eyebrows knitted. “You have a lot of explaining to do but I bloody missed you.” 

She’s lost in his arms for the briefest of moments and she tries to force thoughts of Thorfinn away and focus on the fact that her friend is alive and well. “I missed you, too. You ready to end this?”

With a half laugh, he releases her and they turn back to the battle. “Now more than ever.” 

Day 228

It’s been just over seven months since she’s seen him. 

In the days that followed the war, she found that the memory of her time in the little shack by the woods waned, glimmering like it was merely a dream that had followed her into wakefulness. 

It’s odd to think about the night they shared or the weeks that had preceded it because they feel  _ stolen. _ Mostly it feels wrong because she missed him and she’s not sure she’s allowed to considering she condemned him.

Those forty days had been such a small part of the war for her but they were the catalyst for the rest of her life. 

The magic of the life debt had been repaid; there was no binding contract between them. But that didn’t stop her from appearing outside of the Wizengamot chambers, sweaty palms and heart racketing against her sternum as she waited. 

A small frizzy woman opened the door and smiled at her. “Miss Granger? They’re ready for you.” 

That’s good, she thinks, because she’s not sure she’s ready for them—for him. Her heels click along the black tile and in a desperate attempt to appear collected she lifts her chin and walks swiftly to the podium at the center of the room. 

Directly to her left is a tall cage and for the life of her she can’t bring herself to look at him. She’d  _ promised  _ she’d get him out. And for seven months she’s failed him. 

“Miss Granger,” Kingsley says kindly, folding his hands atop his desk. “I admit I was surprised to see you on the list of witnesses for today. The  _ only _ witness for Prisoner Rowle at all.” 

The thought makes her ill; no one’s come to claim him. “I came to know  _ Mister _ Rowle quite well in the weeks leading up to the final battle and I’m here to testify on his behalf and ask for an acquittal.” 

The room erupts into soft conversation, indignant and surprised faces alike staring down at her. 

“An acquittal is quite the request, Miss Granger, even for someone of your reputation. Prisoner Rowle is being tried for treason, conspiracy to commit a crime, arson, use of Unforgiveables, kidnapping—” 

“Well, he didn’t kidnap me,” she interrupts, lips pursing in the wake of his crimes. “He saved my life and after doing so fed me, clothed me, and protected me. He gave me a weapon and means to arrive at the War.” 

“One good deed does not erase a lifetime of misconduct.” 

“Yet, in many cases a single deed is all it takes to sentence a man to life in prison.” She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean to be insubordinate,  _ sir _ , but Mister Rowle is a result of a failed system. He did what he could with what he was afforded and should not be left to rot in the bowels of Azkaban. I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for him.” 

Finally, her eyes wander to where he sits and tears well at the corners of her eyes. He’s thinner than he ought to be but still large. His skin is caked in dirt and grime that she’s not sure will ever really leave him and what’s worse, she can see the hopelessness in his face. She’s grateful there is still light in his eyes, signs that he exists in there and has staved off the endless dread of Azkaban. 

“I owe him my life,” she says after a long swallow, turning back to the Wizengamot. “I will submit my memories from his attack on us at Tottenham Court, my time as a prisoner at Malfoy Manor, and of my six weeks with him in his home. I will also offer my services in his rehabilitation into society, and agree to take Veritaserum here and now to prove his innocence—” 

“All of that,” Kingsley begins, his eyes tightening as he leans towards her, “for him.” 

Something inside her steels and warms and she ticks her chin higher as the doors behind her open. “And more, if you need it. I stake my reputation on it and ask as a personal favor from the Ministry of Magic for the release of Thorfinn Rowle.” 

She doesn’t need to turn to know who’s there. She’d known they’d show up for her in the end.

Harry steps forward, standing next to the podium. “I also ask for the release and acquittal of Thorfinn Rowle. Hermione was instrumental in ending the war and destroying the final horcruxes; it would not have been possible without Mister Rowle.” 

Ron is next. Then Fred and George, the former stating that his life was saved when pushed from harm’s way by Rowle. Charlie is there as well, sharing a battle when Rowle refused to fire on him and it nearly cost him his own life. 

Remus goes last. 

“I offer my memories of the Battle of Hogwarts,” he states clearly, clapping a hand on George’s shoulder. “Thorfinn Rowle shot his comrade Gibbon in the back when he clearly could have taken the shot at me. It is my opinion he defected and fought for the Order.” 

With a long sigh, Kingsley sits back and eyes the line of witnesses who’ve come to Thorfinn’s defense. “I could have you all arrested for contempt of court.” He shakes his head back and forth. “This is unorthodox at best but as a  _ personal _ favor to the war heroes in this chamber I will allow it. Those in favor of prosecution?” 

One by one, hands raise into the air. Only half, if she had to guess. There is a moment of silence as the Undersecretary counts the hands in the air. “Twenty-five, sir.”

“All in favor of acquittal?” 

Again, hands reach for the sky, and Hermione’s heart seizes in her chest. The Undersecretary tilts her chin towards Hermione and lifts her hand as well. “Twenty-five.” 

Kingsley steeples his fingers over his lips and eyes them intently. “It is my job as interim Minister of Magic to break any ties in the Wizengamot.”

The silence that follows is deafening, each slight movement existing in a vacuum as she turns to Thorfinn again, who’s now staring back at her. 

“I find Mister Rowle guilty of treason, conspiracy to commit a crime…” 

Hermione doesn’t hear the rest, her knees going weak as she grips the edge of the podium. She can see the light go out in his eyes, his resolve dusting into nothingness. Years pass, she thinks, and somehow she is still here, memorising the man she failed. 

“I sentence Mister Rowle to nine months in Azkaban, with seven months time served.” 

Her heart ceases to beat as she whips her gaze back to Kingsley.  _ “What?” _

“Time served, Miss Granger; it means Mister Rowle needs to complete two more months of his incarceration. He will then be released on parole where he will be without his wand for the length of five years. If you can keep yourself out of trouble until then, you will receive your wand back and your freedom as well. Be well, Mister Rowle and…” Kingsley sniffs and lets his parchment furl in on itself. “The Ministry thanks you for your contributions to the war effort.” 

Hermione is forced to watch as two Aurors drag him from his cage and out a side door. 

  
  
  


Day 289

Dragging the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead, Hermione rests back on her haunches and surveys the work done. The garden bed will be ready soon, the seedlings having already sprouted inside. 

She’s painted and cleaned, furnished the bloody place and hung a pot of flowers outside the door. The fridge is far more stocked than it ever had been during the war and the bed is brand new, the best she could find despite the cost. 

There is little to do now but wait. 

If he’d died, surely someone would have told her but other than that she is not privy to any news on his release. She’s not kin, after all, and it seems that all her favors were used up in his release. 

So she waits. 

Day 295

_ Pop! _

Hermione’s heart stills, her eyes fluttering closed as she hangs all her hope on the single sound. It’s gone just as quickly as it came and it isn’t until she hears the sound of the floorboards creaking on the porch that she begins to breathe again.

She can’t turn to see him, afraid that at any moment the dream will fade again and she’ll be back on the run. The door opens quietly; the footsteps stop. 

“You’re still here,” he says and it brings a small smile to her face. 

She finds the courage somewhere in the recesses of her heart and stands to face him. Thorfinn looks better than he did at his trial, some of his weight is back and they seem to have allowed him to shower and a fresh change of clothes, although the shirt is a bit tight. 

Her shoulders rise and fall on a long breath and she crosses the space between them, wrapping her arms around his waist. It takes a moment for him to respond, one arm catching around her waist while his other hand buries in her curls. He kisses her forehead and then her cheekbone, finally her lips, drinking her in and squeezing her tighter still. 

When their lips part, she smirks, her fingers tracing over cheekbone as she stares up at him. “And you’re not dead.”

* * *

  
  
  


I'm not sure what I could give you

Whatever's mine is yours to take

I have never been a teacher

But let's both learn from my mistakes

'Cause it has taken me so long

To surrender what I hoped no one could see

You're not quite what I pictured you would be

You're better than my wildest dreams

_ — My Wildest Dreams _ by Ron Pope—

* * *

**A/N: Hello! I see you’ve made it to another of my wild adventures into rare pairs and thank you for reading! I recently hit 1500 followers on Tumblr which is INSANE. I decided to run a giveaway and do an illustration and a one shot!**

**I was given some lovely prompts but decided to challenge myself with a Thorfinn ane Hermione! Which is hilarious to me because I’ve never even read a Thorfinn before lol so I hope it was okay!**

**Biggest of thanks to In Dreams for beta’ing this for me. She fixed some really terrible snafu’s and all of my tense issues and for that I am eternally grateful. If you’re not reading her Regmione, Beyond and Again, GO DO IT NOW! It’s fucking beautiful and one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever read. EVER.** **  
** **  
** **Thank you again for reading and reviewing, if you feel up to it! I love you all and hope this AN finds you happy, healthy, and safe!**


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